


Likely Lads

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Also the shortest thing I've ever written, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Engagement photos, Is finally realized and put into fic, Love, M/M, Matching pink belts, Pining, Straight up Noelian, Thank you universe, The apology tour times, The v specific headcanon coat, This fic was a gift from the universe, This one is arty, What became of forever though, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: "He hopes he can sense every time he thinks of him. He hopes he can feel the tug to the thread connecting them, two halves made whole, his head curled on his shoulder, hand resting in its natural place."Apology tour angst and a flashback to a photoshoot that I can only ever see as engagement photos. A short, arty trip through Noelian feels. Find out what became of forever, though.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Likely Lads

**Author's Note:**

> All italics are from the Libertines songs [What Became of the Likely Lads/France](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umWuwU1yEUo).

He could draw his face without a pencil.

He thinks about all the other things he could draw. 

The scar on his shoulder, the slope of his nose, the constellations of freckles on his chest and shoulders and arms and face. Deeper when he's been in the sun, faded in the cold months they curled around each other for warmth. He could draw the dimples on his back using just his tongue. He's drawn them time and again; can close his eyes and feel his lips bumping over his skin. 

He could draw a map of every place on his body he liked to be touched, where he needed to be held or caressed or where fingers dug in, clinging. He could draw him without thinking, as natural to him as drawing breath, as natural as his own reflection in the mirror. 

He can't figure out how to draw a map back, how to find his way to the path that ends with the both of them in one place.

It's easier to say these things to strangers, to let them fall out, to slowly tap 140 characters into a glowing white box and say them to the entire world. It's easier to make a rooftop declaration in the back of a cab, a cramped dressing room, belly up to a bar and four drinks deep. It's a temporary release. It flips a switch, lifts the pressure from his chest so quick it's dizzying. 

It creeps in again, cold on the back of his neck, in the pit of his stomach, prickling underneath his eyelids.

He breathes apologies like air, says sweet things to people he's never met, half a world away. He hopes they'll float back on the breeze, paper planes and kite wings, hopes he can sense them. It's easier to say them to strangers than to the person who's become like one. 

He draws him in condensation on car windows, in fleeting lines on worn stages, in salt water on hotel pillows, heartbeat frantic. It doesn't matter where he is,  _ where the only way out is to sleep and to dream. _ He dreams during the daytime. He always has.

He hopes he can sense every time he thinks of him. He hopes he can feel the tug to the thread connecting them, two halves made whole, his head curled on his shoulder, hand resting in its natural place. 

*

He nearly flips past the coat on the rack. 

The weight of it makes him stop. It's thick, heavy, hard to push past without effort. It takes both hands to hold it up by the shoulders, shifting gauzy blouses to the crook of his arm. It's beautiful, buttery suede and soft shearling. Remarkable to find vintage in this size and quality. 

He knows just by looking, just by holding it out and eyeing it, it will fit him perfectly. Still, he loops the hanger over the rack, balances it just right, spreads his hands over the chest before unbuttoning it and slipping it over his shoulders. 

It drapes around him the same way his shirts do when he rolls out of bed and throws one on to make them tea and toast, the same way his jackets do when he gets cold waiting for a cab in the rain after being in a hot, cramped club.

He grins.

He hefts it over the counter and waits at the till, idly running his fingers over scarves and cheap rings and bangles. There are two belts in a box, crinkled plastic wrapped around the untouched coils. He checks one first, then the other. They're the right sizes. 

He adds them to the pile and reaches for his card.

*

Brick walls and zebra crossings and stairwells. In front of the water, his hand resting in its natural place, hips circled in matching pink. 

Lilies in a vase down the pub. He ducks back to the table in the corner after the photographer's snapped a few frames, wobbly in his heels. He skips past yellow and orange for joy and confidence.

Their shoulders press together all the way down to their elbows, leather against suede, their legs from hip to knee. Red for passion, pink for admiration, both for love. The grin that split his face earlier is back, reflected like a mirror image, obscured by a softly spotted stargazer. 

He scoops the petal that's fallen into the pocket of his jacket after the shoot, velvet smooth under his fingertips. He traces a curve, a V, another curve, love hearts all the way back to his flat. 

Then, it's his dimples, his freckles, the slope of his nose, the scar on his shoulder, his beautiful face, under his shaking fingertips. 

_ we wrote the songs that's filled with dreams we have _

*

He wakes from a dream, his skin under his fingertips, name on his lips. He knows he'll find the way back. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am fast learning that the only way I will write angst is accidentally; there's enough misery in reality so when I escape with writing, I like to sit with fun and sexy and happy things. This fic is a result of collaborative digging, stumbling over sad things, and staring into the abyss while the abyss stared back, with starsonthebrow by my side all the way. Everything contained here built up in the back of my brain until one day when we were having a happy chat and I had to disappear for ten minutes and get to a doc immediately to get the first part down and out. 
> 
> It sat in my drafts doc, untitled and forgotten, for several months, until gingerhobbit reblogged a Tumblr post asking for songs. They were lovely enough to send me a playlist of their favorite Libertines songs and Likely Lads set off alarm bells in my head, both because it's one of the best songs I've ever heard, and because of [this tweet](https://twitter.com/noelfielding11/status/464364919472013312), and because it was written by two men who have a dedicated ["Relationship between"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Libertines#Relationship_between_Bar%C3%A2t_and_Doherty) section on their band’s Wikipedia page. The tweet and the song point back to a 70s sitcom about friendship and nostalgia for youth between two men who have taken different paths in life.
> 
> I knew then and there what the title was, polished up the draft and sat with it for a few days. It nagged at me and would not let me end it on a sad note. I re-raided my drafts to sync it up with an idea I'd been holding on to for over a year when it became glaringly obvious that that’s what was needed. Sometimes things just appear and sometimes they take time to get together, but the universe always knows what needs to happen in the end.
> 
> Eternal thanks and love to starsonthebrow, Terrantalen and gingerhobbit for pre-reading and just being generally The Best. <3


End file.
